Men and Women: Different

For my friend K's bachelorette party, we did pretty things. We got dressed up, styled, and made-up, and posed for pinup pictures.



Photo by Sugar Bomb Studios. Highly recommended. HIGHLY.

The mister went to a bachelor party this past weekend for a different wedding. Here's what they did (make sure you have your sound on):

My Greatest Skill is Denial

I go to the doctor. Every winter I get horribly dry skin on my hands. This year, it’s even worse and I look like I have the stigmata. I don’t, FYI.

The doctor thinks it’s eczema.

“It’s probably made worse by wool sensitivity. Do you wear wool mittens?”

I pause, thinking of how much wool I come into contact with on a daily basis.

“Um, I knit. Kind of a lot.”

“With wool?”

“Yes.”

“That might be your problem.”

“I don’t have a wool allergy. “

“What you really mean is: I don’t care if I have a wool allergy, I’m going to knit anyway, right?”

“Pretty much.”

(Turns out it’s probably not my knitting – she watched me knit and noted where the wool runs over my skin. The worst areas on my hand don’t actually come into contact with my knitting, so in this case, my denial was well placed.)

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I’m knitting a wedding shawl for my friend Kate. It is, if I say so myself, beautiful. Buttery soft luscious Malabrigo lace-weight yarn, a floaty, delicate pattern that she chose out of an incredible book of designs, hours (upon hours) of work. It’s well on its way to stunning.

It also has an ink stain on it.

An uncapped pen came into contact with it and bled like a son-of-a-bitch. This happened about 2 hours ago. The shawl is 90% finished. If the ink doesn’t wash out, I will need to rip back about 45 rows (of 600+ stitches each) slice off the offending ink stained yarn, and start afresh. With 10 days left before her shower.
I’m going with it will wash out rather than the screaming, panicking and tearing around with tears in my eyes that I want to do.

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I seem to be deluded about my ability to handle sleep deprivation as well. My new hours at work involve staying until 11:30 or midnight.

I get home by 12:30-ish, read for a little while to wind down, and get to sleep by 1:30. The mister’s alarm goes off at 6:30.

I’m an 8-9 hours of sleep a night kind of girl, but I keep thinking I can operate just fine of 5 hours of sleep.

WRONG.

I could carry groceries in the bags under my eyes. I’m bitchy, snappy, and irritable. After 6 months of greatly reducing my caffeine intake, I’m back up to 6 or 8 cups of coffee a day, most of them well after noon.
I keep thinking I’ll get so much done if I get up when the mister does. What really happens is that I get up, slouch my way to the couch and sit there, vegetable-like for several hours, maybe getting up to walk the dog or toss in a load of laundry, but mostly, sitting. Then the mister comes home for lunch, we eat, I slouch my way to the gym where I half-ass a workout. Then I slouch my way home, shower, and sit my ass on the couch for another hour before heading to work.

I’m trying a new thing this week. It’s called ignoring the mister’s alarm clock and sleeping for another couple of hours after he leaves. I’m going to follow this with getting up and actually moving around instead of laying on the couch reading trashy books and eating cereal straight out of the box.

Surprise!

Surprise!
Originally uploaded by SassyBuster

My friend K sent me this necklace as an early b-day gift.

I LOVE it. I actually spied it on an actor in a TV show and poked around the internet until I found the jeweler that designed it. Then I would hop back to the website and eyeball it once in a while.

I mentioned it briefly to K months ago and, somehow, she filed the information away and remembered and sent it to me for my birthday.

I tried to get a picture of it while I was wearing it, but taking a photo of your own neck without creating a double-chin is tough, so it's posing artfully on my to-be-folded laundry instead.

I love it! Thank you, K! You shouldn't have, but I'm delighted that you did.

Necklace Information.

Summer Memories

Sticky-sweet Kool-Aid as my brothers and I sat at our little orange and yellow plastic picnic table and had our afternoon snacks.

Getting grass stains, not just on my clothes, but on my skin.

Riding my bicycle on our newly paved road, so recently upgraded from dirt.

Riding around in the MG with my mom, top down and radio blasting Ain’t Going Down ‘til the Sun Comes Up.

The way our beagle would run along side our Big Wheels, holding onto a sock with her teeth, her head bobbing as we pedaled our way up and down the driveway.

Bike riding with Chris (who later became my sister in law) all the way to Ben Franklin for Airheads, then to Lake Marion for swimming.

Riding around with Chris’ brother (who later became my husband) on his moped, perched on his knees and squealing with laughter.

Eating home grown tomatoes like apples, just picking them, giving ‘em a rinse with the hose, and chowing down.

My neighbor’s mom banging a triangle on her porch when it was time for her kids to come home for dinner, the sound of it echoing up and down the valley.

Driving around with my brothers on the riding lawn mower and thinking we were so cool.

Going to work with my dad and riding his wheeled desk chair up and down the long aisles of the newsroom until I’d get tired pass out on the floor behind his desk until his shift was over.

Learning to drive a stick shift in the pink Geo Tracker, with the top down, on dusty country roads, grinding gears and whooping with joy when I managed to start in first without killing it.

Three-week-long road trips in the van, towing the pop-up camper, seeing corners of the country that linger in my memories.

Sprawling in the hammock with a book.

Chasing lightning bugs.

Stemming beans with my mom on the deck.

The scent of fresh cut alfalfa, sweet and strong.

Working at the country club, drinking as much free lemonade I could hold, dodging golf balls and dirty old men.

Twins games, with contraband Twizzlers and peanuts smuggled in Mom’s purse.

Rushing home in my boyfriend’s car, scrambling to make my 11:00 curfew, the heat of the day still coming off the pavement in waves .

Picking raspberries and eating two for every one that made it into my basket.

The Difference Giving a Shit Makes

See Edit Below

This year marks the fifth year in a row that I’m a member in the bridal party of a wedding (I’ve been to far more weddings than that – I’m at that age where everyone I know is getting married). And my darling friend K just got engaged and asked me to be her maid of honor, so next year will be number 6.

Here’s the deal with being in a wedding as something other than the bride: when it’s someone you love and give a shit about, it’s wonderful, a huge honor, fun, exciting, and awesome, and you're delighted to be part of such an important day. When you aren't particularly close to the person or don’t really give a shit, though, well, it sucks, and you’d much rather be a normal guest who just gets to show up with a gift and enjoy the party.

I was the maid of honor in my friend MJ’s wedding and it was AWESOME. Other than the fact I totally blanked on the fact I was supposed to give a speech until about 3 days before the wedding, when I just panicked and slapped something together, it was a blast. MJ was a very self-sufficient bride. She needed very little help and other than the occasional “this or that” consult, I pretty much just threw her a shower and showed up on the day of the wedding wearing the adorable dress she picked out.

Next weekend, though, I’m a bridesmaid in a wedding I don’t want to be in. See, the mister is friends with M, M is getting married to J. J and I know each other in the way of women whose men are friends; we can chit chat for half an hour and be comfortable, but we don’t know any personal information about each other, we don't tell each other secrets or rely on each other for support, and we don't hang out or spend time together unless our boys are present. To illustrate how little I know her, when I went to get measured for the bridesmaid dress, the poor girl working the counter asked for the bride’s last name so she could pull up the information AND I DREW A BLANK. I had to call the mister, who called the groom, got the name, and called me back.

But she needed a third bridesmaid and, well, I’m it, despite the fact the mister is not in the wedding at all. I tried everything I could think of to avoid participation – lack of time, lack of money, all the excuses. They were all overridden and now I have to suit up in a strapless red satin number and uncomfortable shoes.

But all the things that annoy me about this wedding were things I loved about MJ’s and will likely love at K’s. Looking for dresses was a blast with MJ, but looking for them for this wedding made me itch. Debating invitation styles or bouquet arrangements was tons of fun with MJ, but annoyed the shit out of me for this wedding.

I mean, I’m glad M and J are getting married and I wish them well and hope their wedding day is glorious, but I don’t particularly want to be part of the wedding, you know?

And it’s all about love. I adore MJ and I pretty much think the sun shines out of K’s ass, so participation in their nuptials was/will be a blast. But next weekend’s bride? Well, I like her husband, but I don’t know her and I’m not invested in her life the way I am in MJ’s or K’s (or the other friends on my “loved and adored” list, you know who you are). And giving a shit makes all the difference.

Edited to Add: Upon rereading, I realize this makes me sound like I don't like J, the bride, which is the wrong impression. I do like her, and the small amount of time I've spent with her has been enjoyable, but we don't share that I'd-help-her-bury-bodies-and-I-know-she'd-do-the-same-for-me connection. Without that sort of friendship behind us, I know I'm just the filler bridesmaid, chosen for my ability to wear strapless red satin and smile for pictures, rather than any real relationship, and the duties that go along with being a bridesmaid feel more like a burden than they really should.

Old Friends

Several weeks ago I met up with some college friends at another friend’s house. We gathered in her new kitchen, with its gorgeous stretches of granite, and caught up over margaritas.

Several hours passed in a blink as we chatted and basked in each other’s company.

It’s a small group of friends, one that doesn’t get together as often as we might wish, but every time we gather, it’s like being back in college, full of enjoyment, laughter, and the easy comfort of old friends.

At the end of the night, we piled into our cars and headed back to our respective homes. At the intersection a few blocks from my friend’s house, our group of cars split off, me to the right, a couple going straight, and another to the left.

I was struck by the moment. As we’ve grown up, changed from those giggly college freshmen, we’ve headed off in different directions. But every once in a while, for a few moments, our different directions bring us all to the same place at the same time. And as brief as those moments are, I cherish them.

Shut your slutty whore mouth!

In addition to being kind, generous and funny, my friend MJ is an awesome embroiderer. She made me this tea towel!

I laughed so hard when I pulled it out of the envelope that I had to sit down on the floor and use it to wipe away my tears.

I think it will hang right there for eternity. I love it.


Thank you, MJ!

Trying to be all Zen and Forgiving and Failing Miserably

You know how you can absolutely adore a friend, to the point of basically worshiping at the altar of their awesomeness, and yet, sometimes, despite that adoration, you occasionally want to kick said friend in the shins for being such a bonehead?

For example, they do something really dumb, or they say something really hurtful and you have to decide if you’re going to call them on it or let it slide?

Right now, I would like to thank every friend that ever let it slide when I did something stupid. Really. Thank you. Because I know how hard it is to look at your friend and think you dummy while smiling and telling them something nice.

I know I’ve been the boneheaded friend a million times, and to each friend that decided not to get offended, who decided that, despite the fact that my mouth moves faster than my brain, I was worth keeping around, I thank you. I appreciate it because right now, in this moment, I understand just how hard it is to let go of something someone said.

A lesson in who I want to be

A darling friend of mine is dealing with infertility.

While I have bitched and complained about my life lately, I really have no reason to be so depressed. Sure, my work life is less than perfect, but really, no one my age is wholly satisfied with their professional lives. And given the other gigantic problems in the world, I should shut my mouth, be grateful I’m educated, employed, and not broke, and just deal. I’m trying.

And I’m getting lessons in dealing from my friend. She is facing the huge, daunting issue of infertility with more grace, patience, and dignity than I have ever shown in my entire life.

I wish I could just make this work for her, that I could bitch and moan and get the right person on the phone and harangue them into make her a mother, but none of the skills in my arsenal (skills like sweet-talking, ass-chewing, a big vocabulary, and the ability to get shit done) are going to do her any good.

Making matters worse, her profession is one that allows her to see bad parents all the time; she sees parents that are so terrible they get their parental rights revoked, parents that never wanted children and never should have had them. She has to hear about this, see it, and deal with it nearly every day.

And instead of wailing about the injustice and pounding her heels on the floor like a toddler having a tantrum in the toy aisle at Target, which is how I would be behaving, she is standing calmly with her chin up, facing each new test, each new medication, each new doctor with complete self-possession.

I cannot tell you how much I admire my friend, how much I wish I could be like her; how I wish I had a fraction of her strength, patience, and fortitude. She’s amazing.

Comfort

This past Friday, at noon, the mister left to go mountain biking and camping with a friend. (Not me. I camp. I do not mountain bike.) By the time I was knee-deep in my little meltdown, he was in eastern bumblefart and had no cell reception. I ended up leaving a slightly hysterical message punctuated by sobs and hiccups. That's the problem with holding it in, sucking it up, and waiting until you get home. The moment you get home, BOOM.

I called back the next morning when I was slightly less insane and left a message saying that I was okay (or that I would be) and not to let me ruin his trip.

KVE, whom I had spoken to the evening before, came over, fed me, let me talk about what happened, and then took me out for some retail therapy. Basically, she held me together all day and if it hadn’t been for her I’d have spent the day wearing leggings, laying on the couch, and whimpering. Bless her heart.

I got a text message from the mister while she and I were at the mall, probably the moment he could get a signal on his cell phone that said “I’m coming home right now.”

I ruined his trip anyway.

But he came home and I was so pathetically grateful that I cried some more. He force fed me a sandwich and stuffed me into bed, bringing the laptop in so I could watch a movie (the better to distract my overactive brain with) until I conked out. The next morning we discussed what had happened, and he kept trying to fix it.

That’s such a man thing.

Never was the difference between male and female versions of comfort so apparent.

KVE listened with a sympathetic ear. I know you’re upset. It’s okay. I understand.

The mister laid out options on the table like I was selecting from a menu. Here’s your problem; here’s how we’ll fix it.

It’s good that he kept me from wallowing by giving me something to focus on, but sometimes I wish he’d figure out that all I want is for him to hug me, rub my back and tell me everything is going to be fine. Even if it’s a lie.

Is this just a sign of adulthood or are there darker forces at work?

Like many people my age, I have several circles of friends: work friends, college pals, law school friends, family friends, and neighborhood acquaintances. Each of these groups dates from a different period of my life and there’s rarely any mingling between them. In fact, the few times I’ve tried to combine groups of friends, while it hasn’t been bad, it has been awkward.

One of these circles of friends is slowly imploding. It’s been a long time coming, I’m sure, but it’s become more apparent recently.

I always thought the whole group of us would stay friends forever (innocent and naïve, that was me) but as time as gone on and the realities of busy lives, changing priorities, and different personalities have come into play, we’ve splintered. Keeping in touch with people takes a lot of effort, an effort that might not always be worth it.

In some friendships, keeping in touch is easy as short, chatty e-mails are quickly exchanged and long stretches of silence are punctuated by get-togethers where you talk, laugh, and act like you’ve never missed a moment.

In other friendships, however, either one party or both parties falls behind in the communication and somehow, the relationship just disintegrates.

What’s worse, though, is when friendships crumble for other reasons.

A jackass husband that is impossible to get along with.

A falling out between two friends forces a group into factions. Some people are assigned to a faction without even knowing it and suddenly they are excluded from activities without understanding why.

Hurt feelings. Misunderstandings. General bitchiness.

Slowly, over time, the group falls to pieces. Some friends are cut out of lives like band-aids ripped from skin – a quick sting, then relief that it is over. Some friends just fall to the wayside. Others become even more cherished.

Is this just a side effect of adulthood? Do growing older and growing up mean growing apart?